


About a Bird

by Microdigitalwaker



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: College, Dorms, First Meetings, First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-19
Updated: 2019-05-19
Packaged: 2020-03-06 21:25:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18859408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Microdigitalwaker/pseuds/Microdigitalwaker
Summary: Nathan, Harold, college





	About a Bird

**Author's Note:**

  * For [managerie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/managerie/gifts).



Nathan Ingram blinks against the morning sun, suddenly aware that he's spent the night on the floor of his dorm room.  He shuts his eyes, thinking that he woken up to worse and after scooping at the nearby pile of dirty clothes to make a pillow, he falls back asleep.  His feet send empty bottles of wine coolers and Miller beer rattling.  A celebratory condom, filled with air like a balloon, settles gently upon Nathan's golden head but he doesn't stir.

Normally, Trent, his roommate - a temperate but not unkindly adherent to the Mormon faith, would have woken him up with a sympathetic kick to the shins but the semester ended on Friday, thus no more Trent, no more classes to dash to, half-asleep and hungover.

"You really can do better," Trent had said, watching him scowl at his Norton's Anthology and then at his IBM Selectric, paper blank. "If you try." 

Nathan can see him, sadly shake his head, looking positively avuncular (nothing wrong with my fucking vocabulary!)  How Trent had never earned a knuckle sandwich, Nathan doesn't know, but to the surprise of everyone involved, they'd gotten along swimmingly and they'd be roommates next fall except that Trent, a returned missionary, has graduated and already halfway home to Hawaii, to the Temple where he'd marry the  beauty he'd dated since high school.  Nathan should have been somewhere else too if he hadn't cocked things up so badly.

Thing is, he'd done fine, acing the actual science type shit, mastering programming languages left and right,  getting perfect scores in Calculus and Geography and wow, he didn't know he had it in him, but the Business Department had hailed him the second coming. 

Brushing silky hair off his forehead in a Robert Redford sort of way, plus his patented dimpled grin had sent high school girls and boys falling over themselves to help him with papers. To  actually write them for him, if you wanted to be more accurate though he was capable of doing it himself.

To be honest, this chance he'd gotten to turn in the stupid paper was given, in no small part, to his charm, well, half that and half a sizable gift from Dad, who would have truly preferred that Nathan had gone to A&M like himself and his daddy before. 

He has  three weeks, until the start of the Summer semester, to write a paper, topic chosen by his instructor, that will give him the gentleman's 'C' that would save his academic ass.

Yesterday, before Trent's dorm room bachelor party, Nathan had run to the office of the English Department, retrieving a sealed envelope with his name on it from his instructor's mail cubby.  Back in their room, he hands it to Trent.  Reading the slip, Trent whistles. "You aren't going to like this."

Nathan scans the page, reads the assigned topic: "Compare and Contrast Homoerotic Imagery in 19th Century American and European Works of Poetry."

"Shit!"

Trent's expression is curious, a dash of pity mixed with a lot of satisfaction that borders smugness.

"What?!?" Nathan snaps, balling up the paper. aiming for his head.

Trent dodges, batting it back.  "I think it will be good for you," he says slowly.  "A chance to explore..."

"I like girls!  If you think I'm..."

"I know you like girls.  Gee, Nathan, as many times as I've come back to the room and your tie is looped around the doorknob.  But you know, some people are..."  Trent pauses, thinking.  "Some people are flexible. I've seen the way you look at guys, it's pretty subtle, but if someone knows you.  I've seen the way you look at me."

Nathan blanches.  "Look, Trent, I never!" he babbles. "It's only been girls!"

This is true, if you don't count circle jerks, which occur at the drop of a hat at  the frat he'd halfheartedly pledged, preferring more independent minded living.

"Nathan, it's ok.  Don't you know?  You're golden, dude.  I like you, no matter what.  Hell, everybody likes you."

*

"He's not going to like you."  
  
The cute, chubby little Resident Advisor, Arthur something or other hands over a set of key - one for the front door of the hall built around time of the Civil War.  
  
"Everybody likes me," Nathan replies, grimacing as his jaw cracks; must have overextended things earlier, as he was packing.   
  
Arthur sadly shakes his head. "Not Harold."  
  
*  
(earlier)

  
There's still a trash barrel left in the hall outside his and Trent's room.  It's half filled with smelly shorts, bottles and cans and a disturbing amount of badly used Hustler magazines.  Nathan wheels it inside and goes to work, tossing things in with abandon until his snags a Pringles can that's oddly heavy,.  He pops the plastic cover to find  something weird and thick and pink, one of the gag  gift from the party, a rubber dick.  
  
Instinctively, Nathan glances around, trying to remember if the door is locked or merely shut. With a nervous chuckle, he remembers that everyone has left.  He slides into his hand. It's disgusting, coated with grease and tiny Pringles crumbs.  Dusting it off with a handful of his REO Speedwagon concert tee doesn't work so he gets off the floor to use the room's sink.  He turns the hot water tap, allowing the dildo to warm as he rinses it.  It's body temperature, pink and clean and inviting and Nathan is hard as a rock.  
  
It's impossible that he's doing this, impossible that the pull is so strong  but he licks the tip, pushing it against his lips as he reaches into his sweats and begins fucking his fist.  It's in his mouth and he's drooling and leaking slick and he's never done this before but it feels so good, so natural.  
  
Afterwards, he washes it again, rolling it up in an old towel before shoving it into his duffel bag, which he places in the back of his old Ford pickup, destination Thornhill Hall.  
  
*  
  
When he suggests that Arthur should introduce him, he looks past Nathan to Thornhill Hall's broad staircase and laughs.  "I've done my cardio for the day.  Besides, he's hiding."  
  
"Hiding?"   
  
"The room you'll be sharing is on the third floor.  He spends a lot of time in the attic." 

Arthur looks down, scuffs the toe of his Chuck Connors on the marble floor. "Harold went through three roommates before we just let him be.  Look, he didn't do anything wrong.  Personally, I like him, but..."  
  
"But?"  
  
"But he's intense.  Really, really intense.  And different..."  
  
Nathan interrupts. "Really, really different? Well, intense and different are my jam."  
  
Arthur smiles at that, pats him on the shoulder.  "Well that sounds fine.  Just remember, it's just the two of you until Summer semester.  And all the other rooms are locked so if you have to you can sleep on a couch down here."  Arthur turns to leave, stopping at the door to say, "Maybe it will all work out. I gotta a good feeling about this, you and the Crow, totally radical."

*

The Crow? Nathan winces aloud as he mounts the stairs, his stomach sick with guilt, Jaeger bombs and poorly digesting pizza.  He knows Harold now, knows that he's responsible for the dude's terrible nickname. He hadn't meant it, he'd said it out loud in the middle of a group of new friends when the skinny little guy had skidded into the library, a mess,  his longish dark hair soaked black by a sudden downpour.  Add his large, beaky nose and an antique peacoat meant for a man more Nathan's size and the epithet had just come out! 

He hadn't wanted the other guys to smirk and laugh as they made loud crow caws.  He hadn't meant for the nickname to catch on and his one attempt at apologizing had been instantly rebuffed and it was rare that anyone saw the little guy again unless in class or emerging from the bowels of the library.  
  
Nathan definitely hadn't called him a faggot and had stopped hanging with the boys who did, not that the Crow....Harold would ever know.  
  
*  
  
Thornhill Hall is unairconditioned, a fact that grows more apparent with each flight and when Nathan reaches the room he feels a stab of pity; if the 3rd floor is this warm, how hot must the attic be?  There's a ladder at the end of the hallway, past the four dorm rooms, near the kitchen and the bathroom, the kind that you pull down with a string.  Nathan's grandma's house had that in her house, he's pretty sure most grandmas did.  
  
There's no sign of Harold as he lets himself inside a spacious room that's filled with books.  There are neat piles and sloppy piles on every surface but those expressly Nathan's - his bed, his dresser, his half of their shared desk, where he sits.  
  
There's a note taped to the old fashioned green glass desk lamp, reading, 'Do not touch my things'.  No signature.  
  
One thing Harold doesn't know is that Nathan's got a contrary streak the size of Texas.  Nathan nods, crumpling up the note.  He thinks for a minute before dumping the contents of a NY Mets coffee mug onto the surface, sending pens, pencils and papers clips flying, some even bouncing to the floor.  He picks them up carefully, placing the mug exactly after giving it a hearty 'finger'.  Feeling satisfied, he unpacks, making his bed.  Stripping to his shorts, he flops down and falls asleep.  
  
*  
  
There's an odd crinkling sound when Nathan turns over in bed, odd enough that he doesn't stretch and drift back.  A piece of paper is attached to his shorts so he sits up, perplexed.  Upon further examination, Nathan sees it is attached using a n invent paperclip that's functionally a straight pin.  The message reads,  
  
'Seriously, please do not to touch my things!'  
  
It's easily one of the weirdest things Nathan's ever experienced and he's delighted, absolutely tickled at the thought of Harold the Crow tiptoeing into the room,  actually touching him to attach the surprisingly polite note.  Not to mention the implication, that Harold was spying on him, either through a hidden camera that's technically quite subtle and advanced or through a peep hole.  Nathan recalls the Vincent Price-type horror movies from his childhood, where any portrait might have a pair of peeping eyes. 

Flopping back on his mattress, he's wheezing with laughter.  
  
"You got me, Harold!  I'll be good," he says loudly and from then on Nathan carries on conversations that he almost desperately hopes aren't strictly one sided.  It makes things a lot less lonely and pathetic and it's shocking how easily it becomes a habit. 

Ignoring his writing project, he lounges about, shooting the shit about everything: baseball, the work he needs to do on his grandpa's old truck, the weather.

Instead of reading the small pile of poetry books from the library, he sits at the altar of Harold's bookcase - not touching a thing but reverently teading the titles aloud, wistfully wishing he could borrow one in particular.  With a sigh, Nathan announces his plans to go buy a box fan and some drinks because it's hotter than Sam Houston's nutsack.

*

There's less money in his wallet than Nathan expects until he recalls the bachelor party's second beer run but after hitting the hardware store for the fan and things for the truck there's enough for two roast beef subs and two enormous Big Gulps.  
  
He puts the drink and food on the kitchen counter.  He deliberate yanking down the ladder but figures he's made his presence known already. 

It's hotter than fuck on the third floor and feeling a rush of sympathy, he puts the fan down next to the food.  Nathan wishes they could use it in their room together but the attic is hotter and he guesses Harold needs it more.  
  
Back inside, he pops in a Steely Dan 8-track before spreading his food on the desk.  It takes him a minute to notice there's something on his pillow, the antique book he'd viewed with such longing, "Formal Languages and Their Relation to Automata'.  
  
Ignoring his lunch, Nathan washes and dries his hands and begins to read.  Inside, inside are notes written in a childish hand and when he turns to the fly leaf there's an inscription:  'Presented to Harold, by his father, on his 9th birthday'.  
  
There's a sudden pain in his chest. like his heart is cracking open, sending honey sweet waves crashing.  He's never fallen in love,  has wondered if he was even capable..until now.  Nathan doesn't know what Harold is like inside that remarkable brain of his or what wonders he's capable of but it's like a switch has been irreversibly clicked and he'll be damned if he won't be there to find out.  
  
  
*  
  
The next morning, there's a fresh copy of the Wall Street Journal at the foot of his bed, along with a bag of donuts.   
  
Later, after loudly expounding on the horror of his academic problems, including the irrelevance of homoerotic anything, Nathan goes to the bank then picks up a couple of pizzas and some brews and alone but together, he hopes, they listen to the Mets destroy the Braves.  Nathan even thinks he can hear Harold cheering along with him.

*

There's an urge Nathan's been trying to ignore, a base urge that is usually dealt with following a unspoken set of roomate rules that Nathan isn't sure applies.  How does one jerk off decorously with a roommate like Harold?  Especially considering that Nathan's retrieved the towel wrapped rubber dick, jamming it beneath his pillow while he thinks things over.  
  
It's several degrees more flagrant, he decides, when one jerks off with a dildo up one's ass.  It's axiomatic.  But it doesn't dampen his urges, figuring that if it had felt so good in his mouth, how much better must it feel up in there, especially if he can bend enough to manage a little fucking action?  
  
Nathan is also concerned because one can categorize mouthing the veiny pink toy as merely an experiment but fucking yourself is a horse of another color.  
  
Nathan doesn't care, in fact he flicks the lights back when he gets his bottle of lube from his sock drawer.  He spreads out across his bed, all the harder because he's imagining that Harold's watching.   
  
Even after fingering himself with a generous amount of lube, it hurts as he eases it in, burning, with a lingering ache.  Undaunted, he adds a lot more lube, half the bottle he guesses, and tries again, slower this time.  He jumps, whining, when it runs against his prostate and he grabs hold of his dick and starts tugging.  Nathan closes his eyes so he can imagine Harold bending over his body, servicing him like a stud horse covers a mare and all to soon he's coming, crying, "Harold!" so damned loud.

*  
  
Nathan showers in the morning, hot so his skin is pink and steaming.  He wrings out his hair, which is long enough so that with a rubber band it makes a pretty decent pony tail.  Drinking a tepid mug of instant coffee, he spends most of the morning rearranging the library books and notebooks.  When he's successfully built a house of cards using his package of index cards, Nathan gives up.

While there's still some morning cool, he decides to grab his bag of stuff from the hardware store and goes down to work on his poor old truck;  he and the 1960 Ranchero had been through a lot together and it's a welcome distraction to work on her. 

He's not a gearhead but he can do a lot and he starts off with something simple, changing the air filter and then moving on to replacing sparkplugs, putting off the trickiest job on his plate; the truck's battery is less than six months old but he's had to jump the battery with increasing regularity until he has to conclude that the alternator's gone tits up.  He's easing out when it slips... "Damn it!"  
  
Skin peels off his trapped left hand as he automatically yanks it loose.  Nathan sinks to the grass bordering the parking lot, pulling off his tshirt to wrap it up.  He feels sick, watching blood soak through fabric of his vintage Zoso shirt so he closes his eyes.  
  
A hand touches Nathan's shoulder and he realizes he's been weaving side to side as he sits on the grass.  
  
"Nathan?"  
  
It's Harold, in the flash, dripping wet as though he'd sprinted from the shower taking time to pull on a tshirt and jeans. Woozy, Nathan is fascinated at the boy's bare feet. 

"Like a hobbit," he pronounces, pointing at Harold's toes.  
  
"Oh dear," Harold murmurs, trying unsuccessfully not to react.  
  
"Made you laugh."  
  
"You've made me laugh many times this week.  Made me do a few other things, too."  
  
Fascinated, Nathan allows Harold to take his hand.  "It's the blood that gets me," Nathan confesses.  "When I was seven they let me watch the calfs get castrated."  
  
Harold winces.  "I know exactly what you mean."  
  
"Really?"  
  
"You aren't the only one who grew up in the countryside.  Only a little bit more north."  
  
"Oklahoma?"  
  
Harold's laugh is hypnotic.  "A little more north."  
  
He's brought a box, a first aid box judging by the red cross stenciled on the lid and it becomes obvious that Harold knows what he's doing.  Nathan can't watch but he can feel his fingers moving steadily, feather light as he rinses the wound with water.  
  
"You aren't going to like this," he warns and Nathan clamps his teeth to keep from crying as alcohol splashes.  
  
Antibiotic ointment comes next and then a set of butterfly bandages. 

"You should probably get stitches," Harold cautions as he wraps the whole mess with a flourish.  
  
"It'll be fine," Nathan tells him, hazarding a look now that the blood is covered.  Except...  
  
"My Zeppelin shirt!"  
  
"Soak it overnight in a sink of cold water and soap.  Should be fine."

"You've done this sort of thing before."  
  
A wistful smile appears, swiftly disappearing.  "Hmmm."  
  
It's enough that Nathan drops the subject except to thank him.  "You know anything about trucks?"  
  
*  
  
Harold's a magician, whistling something achingly sweet as he goes to work.  He pauses from time to time to pat the car, whispering something Nathan can't make out except that it sounds encouraging.  Loving, even.  
  
Nathan's oddly disappointed when Harold finishes.  
  
"She's a fine girl," Harold pronounces, wiping oil from his hands.  "I think I'll let her rest until tomorrow when we'll change the oil and repack the brakes."  
  
Nathan grin falls.  "Shit.  I need to work on my paper.  Only a week plus change left and I still haven't got a handle on...it."  
  
Harold moves closer, his eyes drifting down in time, Nathan realizes, with the drops of sweat sliding down his chest.  
  
"Perhaps I can be of assistance?"  
  
Lowering his voice, Nathan replies, "Sure, but not out here; don't want to get arrested."  
  
Turning red, Harold gasps.  Grabbing Nathan's uninjured hand he pulls him towards the dorm.  "As you wish."  
  
*  
  
"I can't process it," Nathan whines.  "My eyes slide off the words and my heart beats too fast and my mouth turns dry."  
  
Harold reads through the rubric.  He fixes his eyes on Nathan's like he's reading his soul.  
  
"You have a remarkable ambivalence towards the subject at hand.  Especially considering..."  
  
"Considering what?" asks Nathan smugly, certain now that Harold had watched him.  
  
Answering only with a cocked eyebrow, Harold stands, motioning towards Nathan's bed. 

"Take off everything but your shorts," Harold orders as he takes off his own.  The room fills with shadows when Harold turns off the light before sliding into bed.  At the pillows, sitting up so that he can cradle Nathan, so that his chin can rest on his shoulder and his lips touch Nathan's ear.  
  
"Just say 'no' and I'll stop."  
  
Nathan nods but Harold gets him to say it out loud before he starts.  He kisses Nathan, on his neck and behind his ear as his hands drift up and down, belly and chest as he starts to speak, low and sweet.  
  
"I mind how once we lay such a transparent summer morning, How you settled your head athwart my hips and gently turn'd over upon me, And parted the shirt from my bosom-bone, and plunged your tongue to my bare-stript heart, And reach'd till you felt my beard, and reach'd till you held my feet."  
  
Nathan gets it.  Squirming in Harold's whipcord slim arms and against Harold's fuzzy chest and throbbing erection, Nathan really gets it.  
  
*  
Wringing wet, they rest, belly to belly.  
  
"I should probably get up, make notes."  
  
Harold yawns.  He takes off his glasses and adjusts the pillow and sheets as if the bed was his own.  "Give me am hour."  He glances down at his dick.  "Maybe less.  I've got some Paul Verlaine That'll knock your socks off."

Nathan wants to crawl back with him.  He wants to thank Harold in a million different ways.  He wants to apologize for calling him the Crow, will apologize but later because he Harold's already asleep. He gets the feeling that he'll be forgiven.


End file.
